Profiles
by lady of scarlet
Summary: A series of unrelated one-shot drabbles/short stories involving the BAU team members. Mostly character pieces. All Gen no ships, varying lengths and content, explores different POV's. FRT, no spoilers.
1. Sound: Emily POV, Morgan

**Story #1- Sound**

**Characters: Emily (POV), Morgan**

**Word Count: 270**

**Rating: FRT**

**Warnings: Angst, implied violence, bereavement.**

She watches, despite herself, morbidly entranced as Morgan attempts to hold the vic's screaming mother back from the crime scene. The CSI's are crowding the area. NYPD Officers are warding off the neighbours accumulating on the street.

Horrific, is the only word to describe a scene like this. Unfortunately, horrific is nothing new.

Shrill cries rise over the pierce of sirens as the woman begs and bargains with god, with the cops, with the spouse she won't allow to comfort her.

Her fists impact Morgan's chest vainly in her frustration to reach what remains of her child. What she doesn't realize now, is that this restraint is in her best interest. There's nothing left of her child to see.

Emily tries to look away, tries to be objective, reasonable. But suddenly, the cries stop. The noise assaulting her ears is dramatically and unexpectedly reduced, as though the air itself stilled.

The woman abruptly ceased her struggle, shock engulfing her faculties, and sank slowly to her knees on the dew coated grass. The rupture of her broken heart finally spreading to her mind.

Unblinking, her eyes focused on some unseen point of interest, known only to her in her despair. No longer needing restraint, the woman's husband took over, kneeling next to her, whispering through tears and wrapping her in an embrace that she did not return.

Sound continued to swirl around them, the ambience that generally accompanies public realization of another's terror. The sympathy and fascination of bystanders carried on the wind, almost deafening in volume.

The occasional gasping sob of the mother seemed all that remained of her now.


	2. Sanctuary: Reid POV

**Story #2- Sanctuary **

**Characters: Reid (POV)**

**Word Count: 168**

**Rating: FRT**

**Warnings: Angst, non-explicit substance abuse.**

The bathroom seemed an unsanitary sanctuary at first, but Spencer learned at a young age to appreciate the lockable door, open-able drawers, and the lack of that incessant electronic hum that found him in every other room of the house.

It was a quiet place, where he could just disappear and meld into the porcelain of the empty bathtub whenever the world fell to ashes around him. The cold of the tiles grounded him, distracted his wandering mind.

Hidden away from the socially constructed realities beyond the bathroom door, he could be free from norms and mores, from what he _should_ do, how he _should_ act, why he _should_ give a damn.

With the lights turned off, he could pretend for a while that the syringe grasped in his hand was meant to fill someone else's veins, because if you couldn't see it, maybe it wasn't really there. And if no one saw, how could it be wrong?

Pressing his forehead against the cool tiles, he inhales. Exhales.


	3. Step, Step, Pause: Hotch POV, PregnantJJ

**Story #3- Step, Step, Pause**

**Characters: Hotch (POV), Pregnant!JJ**

**Word Count: 395**

**Rating: FRT**

**Warnings: Violence**

Hotch watched carefully as the man with the machete paced in wide and erratic circles around them.

Step, step, pause.

His wrists itched from the rope binding them, but he suppressed his discomfort with practiced ease, preferring instead to focus calmly on the situation at hand. Every so often the dominant man would stop and listen intently to the silence, then, when satisfied, resume his pacing.

Step, step, pause.

He sat bound to a wooden chair in the center of the large, empty room- gagged, due to an earlier indiscretion with the submissive man guarding the door. JJ had been luckier and was left to sit in her own wooden chair across from him with her hands in her lap, waiting for an opportunity.

The Unsubs were disorganized, and steadily devolving. The submissive was clearly high and the dominant profiled as an impulsive visionary. In retrospect, he probably should have been less antagonistic. They weren't likely to kill them- they would have done that already. No, by this point they were leverage. There was no reasoning with them now, but it didn't matter. His team was on their way. It would all be over soon.

Step, step- the machete wielder paused in front of JJ, silently appraising her. When she didn't make eye contact, he moved on. Good girl.

She knew what to do. She could take care of herself. Nothing to worry about. Only minutes to go, and they'd be home free. They could do this.

Step, step, BANG. The sound of a door meeting an untimely end somewhere on the first floor resonated throughout the room, causing all four of them to jump in surprise. His team had arrived. It was almost over.

Foot steps sounded on the stairs.

The dominant hesitated for only a moment before taking two more quick strides over to JJ and jerking her out of the chair with one hand while grasping the machete menacingly with the other.

It was then that Hotch saw it. The exact second that her control slipped. The slight apprehension that gave way to the nearly imperceptible flash of terror in her eyes. She gasped, her slim arms instinctively covering her stomach.

He cursed himself for not having noticed before, but it was too late now. Her secret was out, and everyone in the room knew.

And just like that, everything got complicated.


	4. Morphine: Morgan POV, Garcia

**Drabble #4: Morphine**

**Characters: Morgan (POV), Garcia**

**Word Count: 410**

**Rating: FRT**

**Warnings: Implied violence, language, Angst!Fluff.**

Morgan felt unbearably idle, his eyes glued to the steady flicker of the heart monitor, getting lost in each predictable and reassuring beep.

Would she blame him? She should. He deserved it. How he didn't see the drunken bastard come out of nowhere with that goddamn aluminum bat in his hand, he had no idea. That kind of thing just wasn't supposed to happen off duty, but that was no excuse for letting his guard down. So much for a relaxing night on the town. At least it would be memorable.

She'd probably never want to be around him again after this. Maybe she'd be angry with him. Maybe she'd hate him. He was starting to really hate himself. Twice now he hadn't done his job and protected her, and this time he had no petty excuses.

He was _right there_! He should have seen it coming! _Damn it!_ He huffed, trying to reel in the anger that he'd already released on the mugger-soon-to-be-convict.

Garcia should have been awake by now, and he considered calling in the nurse again to check on her.

Her heartbeat was steady, her breathing normal. She'd been given sedatives and the blow to her temple wasn't expected to cause any problems once she woke up, just a headache. Her doctor said she could leave as early as tonight, provided there were no complications.

Something occurred to him that he hadn't considered before; what if she didn't bounce back this time? What if this incident brought up some unresolved post traumatic stress? Oh god.

In his growing despair he almost missed the slight fluttering of her eyelashes as she regained consciousness.

"Morgan?" she questioned, her voice betraying nothing but her confusion.

"I'm here sweet thing." When she didn't immediately reply, he continued in a panicked rush, "I know you hate hospitals sugar, but you got knocked on the head pretty bad- the doctor says you'll be just fine though, you can check out whenever you feel ready." He waited for her reaction. Nothing.

Her brow furrowed as she focused on him seriously, and he steeled himself for the worst.

She leaned towards him conspiratorially and whispered, "You're very colourful. Did they give me morphine?"

"Yeah baby girl, they did."

"Oh good," she smiled easily, settling back into the pillows. "I guess that means you'll have to stay with me tonight. I'll need ice cream. _And_ sprinkles. Chocolate ones."

He grinned, inexpressibly relieved, "Anything for you, goddess."


	5. Lessons in Anthropology: Rossi POV

**Drabble #5: Lessons in Anthropology**

**Characters: Rossi (POV), the team, Jack**

**Word Count: 667**

**Rating: FRT**

**Warnings: Mild language.**

He used to think that he'd never understand this team.

The way they relied on and confided in one another with such unrelenting loyalty was verging on reckless. He'd always been taught that emotional attachments got in the way of the job. The bond they shared transcended that of colleagues, or even friends, and it took him quite literally _months_ to pin point its exact nature.

His first days back had been complete culture shock.

Could that much really have changed since he'd been gone? It wasn't just the jet that threw him off either, the whole dynamic of the group was odd, though admittedly fascinating. It was like watching some mysterious tribe from the outside, some sort of warped anthropological experiment that he'd been thrown into unwittingly.

One of the first real glimpses he had into the complex inner workings of the group occurred a couple months after his return.

The last time Hotch had brought his son into the office they all fawned over the little guy. Such an opportunity was rare with his ex-wife calling the shots and Hotch was practically glowing with paternal pride.

Whenever Jack was around they were always 'uncle' this and 'aunty' that and he doubted it would be any different when JJ had her baby.

Rossi had watched them for a little while, shuffling through some papers a few feet away and apparently looking a bit left out, because before he saw it coming Hotch had instructed the boy to "go catch your Uncle Rossi!" Which he did. Quite enthusiastically, considering they'd only ever met a handful of times before that.

It was strange that that moment should have changed anything for him, but it did.

The boy had some sort of colourful crap on his hands and it rubbed off on the leg of Rossi's pants. He didn't know why, but he found that absurdly funny at the time, and so did Jack. The team laughed. He laughed. The kid insisted on being picked up.

For a brief second he was no longer an outsider, no longer looking in from afar. He was one of them. _Uncle Rossi_. And much to his amazement, he liked it.

That was the first time he thought there might be something to this team that he was missing out on; the first time they really let him in.

He'd never had much in the way of a familial support system in his life, and never thought he needed one, to be honest. He made his own name, pursued his own interests unhindered. He tried a few times to fill that space, but each attempt had ended in a messy divorce and he always considered himself lucky not to have any kids of his own, lest he should screw them up and inadvertently produce the next Bundy.

His father's last few months had probably been the only time Rossi could remember him giving a shit about his kids. He wasn't exactly the sharing-and-caring type, but as soon as the doctors gave him an expiration date, he was all about making up for lost time. Rossi humoured him, sure, sat by his bedside and discussed the more philosophical points of life, but nothing could really replace his father's absence in his younger years.

He gave up on the idea of family bonds or real intimacy a long time ago. It just didn't seem logical to set oneself up for disappointment like that.

But now, the more he grew attached to the team, the more he found that he couldn't hope to stop himself from 'going native'. Maybe not everyone was _born_ into their family. Maybe family was something that simply had to be found.

He had always questioned the value of the strange kinship his team shared. Now that they'd accepted him as one of their own, letting him into their covert world, their makeshift family, he couldn't deny the appeal of it.

Perhaps 'Uncle Rossi' was a role he could get used to.


	6. 365: Reid POV

**Disclaimer:** All characters contained herein belong to TPTB and I am immensely grateful to be allowed to play in their sandbox.

**Story #6- Three Hundred and Sixty Five**

**Characters: Spencer**

**Word Count: 437**

**Rating: FRT**

**Warnings: Implied substance abuse/recovery.**

**A/N: Written as a holiday gift for Relala and dumped here for lack of a better alternative. Hope you enjoy it sweetie. **_**Prompt: Spencer and Tea**_** (with a little addict!Spencer for your enjoyment). Thanks to Oroburos69 for the last minute beta.**

Day three hundred and sixty five had taken nine hundred and thirty two days to reach.

If he let his eyes drift closed, Spencer could still feel the needle tear through his skin, the warm rush of endorphins and anticipation that made his heart race and his thoughts scatter, the burning humiliation that he pushed to the back of his mind and replaced with cold liquid spreading like a delicious poison through his veins.

There was something so appealing about the chemical ecstasy of oblivion, the quiet it offered, the beautiful promises it held.

It whispered to him still._ How inviting, how divine, just a taste, just once more. _

The memories sent shivers through him, leaving a dull and aching remembrance in his muscles that he knew would never quite leave.

But the cost of quiet was deafness, _just a taste_ was damning, and all those lovely promises never were quite as lovely as promised. A sigh slipped past his lips, the sound echoing hollowly in the quiet kitchen.

Hot water pooled in an empty porcelain mug as Spencer tipped the kettle forward, and a tendril of steam rose from it, reaching, searching. A tea bag quickly followed in afterthought, landing gently in the water and tinting it green on contact.

He inhaled the sweet aroma leisurely—green tea, a twist of lemon verbena, a hint of peppermint—letting it wrap around his senses and relishing in the simplicity of it.

Three hundred and sixty five days.

One year.

Spencer grinned, rolling the words over and over again in his mind, mouthing them silently to himself as he reached for the sugar dish.

Four spoonfuls found their way into his cup, then a fifth for good measure, before he pushed it to the side and reached for another empty cup to fill.

It had been a long time since he'd had a guest.

Gideon had been the last, and he had always preferred his tea plain—_unpolluted, _he'd say. But that didn't matter anymore.

Spencer had left the windows open today, letting air and light and the soft hum of life in. He placed both mugs on the kitchen table and straightened out the chessboard there. Knights and bishops all found their proper places, waiting patiently for the game to begin again.

A knock came to the door and Spencer smiled, pulling the borrowed one-year medallion from his pocket. It was warm from his body heat, resting heavy and solid in his palm, ready to be returned to its owner. Spencer didn't need its reassuring weight in his pocket any longer.

It was time to move on.


End file.
